


Tis The Season

by obstinatrix



Category: X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alcoholism, Angst, Christmas, Like really it's depressing as all hell, M/M, This is very depressing I'm sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-10
Updated: 2014-12-10
Packaged: 2018-02-28 23:43:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2751569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obstinatrix/pseuds/obstinatrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This time of year reminds Charles of his mother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tis The Season

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Red](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Red/gifts).



This time of year reminds him of his mother. He supposes that's true for a lot of people, but for Charles, it's not the fairy lights or the festive sweaters that bring back childhood memories. Christmas was never much about that in the Xavier household. When the cloying Christmas music starts up (seemingly earlier every year) what he sees in his mind's eye is his mother, reaching for another bottle, _just one more_ , always just _one_ more. 

Well, Charles tells himself, as he cracks the seal on a bottle of Jack's in the kitchen: they do say it's the season for it, after all. Happy Let's-Get-Fucked-Up-Mas! Merry Drunken Sad December! Charles pours a generous measure and knocks it back. Never mind that he's been doing this since March past. Never mind that there's been a part of him aching for it since Erik left, a hole in his chest that the broken child in him thought whisky could fill. It's holiday time, now; everybody's stumbling through the streets wild and giddy on eggnog, clutching at each other, giggling with their arms thrown around their partners' shoulders, and if they can drink that way when they're happy -- well. Charles thinks he's entitled to a tot or two. 

It's only at times like this, when he's drunk beyond the point of drunkenness, that he can admit the depth of loss he feels, the way the crater in his heart is widening by the day. Everywhere he goes, it seems, things fall apart. Erik left and, one by one, the rest left with him, until there was only Hank to keep Charles from drinking himself into a stupor, choking on his own vomit in his study, putting an end to it all. 

Sometimes, when he's drunker still, he thinks it's a pity Hank stayed. It's not as if he has much to live for. 

Outside, he can hear the vague sounds of carollers, high-pitched young voices belting out some old tune at the top of their tiny lungs. Ten years ago, Charles would have found it endearing, but now it needles up an anger in him he can't explain. Once upon a time, he'd imagined a winter like that with Erik, learning each other's traditions -- Charles's gloved hand in Erik's as they walked in the snow; the two of them decking out Westchester for Charles's secular Christmas and Erik's quiet Hannukah. How stupid he'd been. Now, he can't even walk without Hank's bloody drugs. Unaided, he's weaker than a fucking baby; he's a useless specimen of humanity, nevermind all Erik's guff about _homo_ bloody _superior_. If Charles is _homo superior_ , he fears for the immediate continuation of the world. Charles is nothing but a washed-up poor little rich boy holed up in the back of beyond, slowly drinking himself to death because no better alternative seems feasible any more. 

The carols are getting more distinct, the group moving closer to Charles's window. Charles wishes the serum could block them out too, block out everyone. Everything. 

Perhaps, with any luck, another glass of whisky might.


End file.
